


The Discovery

by 221Books



Series: Book!verse [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Post-Reichenbach, book porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-02 22:10:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2827805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Books/pseuds/221Books
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been home for a few weeks, and John makes a discovery while searching the flat for his laptop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John stands in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, and lets out a puff of air. He puts his hands on his hips as he looks around with frustration at the clutter and mess surrounding him. His laptop is missing, and he’s pretty sure he knows where it’s got off to.

Sherlock has been back from his cross-continent take-down of Moriarty’s criminal network for only a few weeks now, and he’s quickly fallen back into his old habits of home. One of these habits being the ‘borrowing’ of John’s possessions - most often his laptop - and failure of returning said possessions unless yelled at. But Sherlock isn’t here for John to yell at right now. In fact, John isn’t exactly sure where Sherlock is. He left less than fifteen minutes ago, going on about some crime scene Lestrade wanted him to take a look at, punctuating the monologue with his usual comments about the overall incompetency of the Yard. John had only been half-listening at the time. He had come around the corner from the kitchen with two steaming mugs of tea in his hands, just in time to see the tail-end of Sherlock’s Belstaff coat pass over the threshold of the doorway as he tromped out of the sitting room. He heard Sherlock’s rapid footsteps fade down the stairs, and disappear out the front door, which slammed inconsiderately loudly behind him. John stood quiet for a moment, lips pursed and brow furrowed. He sighed. Placing one mug of tea on the small side table beside his chair, and taking the other one back into the kitchen, he settled it on the worksurface, unsure of what else to do with it. It was undoubtedly likely that Sherlock wouldn’t return before his tea got too cold to drink, so really, there wasn’t much point in keeping it, but John just couldn’t bring himself to pour it down the sink. Maybe he’d have it after he’d finished his own.  

Standing in the sitting room, John contemplates his situation. At first he was, admittedly, a bit relieved Sherlock had left. He could finally have a peaceful few hours to himself, without the seemingly endless cacophony of Sherlock’s existence to bother him. Living with Sherlock means John is almost constantly inundated with happenings directly caused by the Great Detective. These happenings include (but are certainly not limited to) Sherlock’s ranting - usually on subject matters either much too specific or much too trivial for John to care about - messes in the kitchen, including everything from petri dishes and containers filled with questionable specimens, to beakers filled with questionable chemicals, as well as the general verbal insults that ranges from personal, to the stupidity of the world in general. Despite this, there are times when John wouldn’t choose anyone else in the world to have as a flatmate. Sherlock’s better qualities do shine through at times, often in the form of impromptu violin concerts, sometimes of John’s favourite pieces, and almost always enjoyable. Add to that the wonderful lack of monotony their crime solving adventures provide, and top it all off with the fundamental fact that John has finally found someone who he considers to be one of the best friends he’s ever had. Sure, the times of joy are sometimes greatly disproportionate to moments of displeasure. Finding body parts in the fridge, trying to appease Mrs Hudson after Sherlock shoots holes in the wall, and, as in times like John is experiencing now, trying to track down his personal possessions which Sherlock has ‘borrowed’ aren’t the best times he’s had, but he still wouldn’t trade Sherlock for anyone.  

Again, he drags his eyes over the entirety of the sitting room, scanning the clutter and mess around him, still seeing no sign of his laptop. Despite the absolute mess of papers and array of eclectic, out-of-place objects that fill the room, his laptop should be somewhere obvious. Sherlock may take and use John’s things without any sort of consent on John’s part, or consideration on Sherlock’s own, and he almost never puts things back where he found them, but he never intentionally hides them. They’re almost always to be found in plain sight, resting in relative safety wherever Sherlock was last using them.

Except in this case.

John makes another more thorough search of the flat, expanding his hunt to include the ground floor, even going as far as to ask Mrs Hudson if she’s seen it, but to no avail. Feeling that he’s been adequately scrupulous his most recent search, John deduces that his laptop is quite obviously not in any of the places he’s looked. That leaves only one other place it could be, and that place is Sherlock’s bedroom. John would really rather not invade Sherlock’s privacy unless he’s completely confident he’s exhausted all other possible locations and options. With this in mind, he takes out his mobile, to try one last thing. He texts Sherlock to ask where his laptop is. While he waits for a response, he again searches the sitting room and kitchen for what feels like the dozenth time, moving papers and making futile attempts at tidying as he goes. John’s eyes glance at the door of Sherlock’s room every time one of the locations he checks proves fruitless, and after almost 20 minutes without a response to his text, and still no luck searching on his own, John is very confident of his laptop’s location. His level of guilt over what he’s about to do drops substantially, but doesn’t disappear altogether. He walks down the hall towards Sherlock’s room.

The door is almost closed, but for a few inches, and looking at what little he can spot through the space it leaves, John can already see that Sherlock’s ‘tidy habits’ extend to his own room as well. As much as John dislikes such a level of indolent untidiness, seeing the state of Sherlock’s room actually proves itself to be a relief. If Sherlock’s own private space is just as messy as the parts of the flat he and John share, it means Sherlock’s messiness is merely a habit, rather than a general disregard or inconsideration towards John.

Standing before the door, he gently pushes it open, letting it swing soundlessly on its hinges as momentum takes over. He stands up straight, and clears his throat, as though to announce his entrance into a room with no one in it. John finds his own mental momentum, and uses it to push his body forward. He takes a step across the threshold, entering the room.

In all their time living together, this is only the second time John has ever been alone in Sherlock’s room. The first time seemed like a lifetime ago. It had been shortly after Sherlock’s ‘suicide’, in which, after trying, and failing, to convince John that he had been a fake (“ _It’s a trick. It’s just a magic trick..._ ”. John can still hear the words in his mind as if they were spoken only days before), and that the entirety of their friendship had been a ruse, Sherlock had stepped off the ledge of the rooftop of St Bart’s hospital, falling to his supposed death on the pavement below. John had been forced to watch it all unfold from the parking lot, helpless to do anything other than plead with Sherlock to reconsider such a rash and, what he thought to be at the time, permanent decision. John had believed the event to be as real, horrifying, and heartbreaking as was plain in front of him. He had buried Sherlock, mourned, and tried to move on with his life as best he could, but he never really got over it. Shortly after Sherlock’s funeral, John had come back to the flat to help Mrs Hudson as she began the arduous task of packing up Sherlock’s things. John had found himself alone in Sherlock’s room, in a moment of quiet mourning, but was only able to stay a few minutes before it became too much for him.

It wasn’t until three years later, when Sherlock suddenly reappeared in his life, that John had learnt the truth - that Sherlock had needed to fake his own demise in order to covertly track down Moriarty’s network, and finally bring his criminal empire to an end. John suspects there’s a lot more to it than that - that it isn’t as simple, or as black and white as Sherlock would like John to believe. John knows there’s a lot of details he’s not privy to, both in the events leading up to Sherlock’s faked suicide, and in those three years spent away, but Sherlock remains continually reluctant to share any of the details with him. Every time John brings it up, Sherlock responds with a dismissive comment or hand wave, as if the details of the past three years of his life aren’t worth the breath he’d use to talk about them. John wants so desperately to know. He wants to know what Sherlock did, where he was, whether he was ever hurt or in any danger (or more likely, how hurt, and in how much danger), but most of all, he wants to know why Sherlock didn’t let John go with him - why he kept him in the dark all those years - allowing him to suffer in the knowledge that he had watched his best friend commit suicide, and been powerless to do anything about it. But John knows that prying won’t get him any answers. Sherlock can be so spitefully stubborn when he wants to be. So for now he’ll just have to hold onto his tongue, and his hope, and maybe Sherlock will decide to share it with him someday.

John already feels strangely guilty about his intrusion into Sherlock’s privacy, and he hasn’t even touched anything yet. Standing just inside the doorway, he looks around the room, observing it to be extensively well-stocked with a similarly diverse array of items as are filling the rest of the flat. He sees everything from old magazines and books, to clothes, to assorted knick-knacks, all with varying levels of dust coverage. John is suddenly reminded of those ‘Can You Find It?’ picture books he used to enjoy as a child, and he now feels as though he’s in one of the pages, as he scans the room in front of him. He recognises much of the possessions as being there since the last time he was in the room, and is again hit with memories of that last visit, only now there’s a noticeably new layer of belongings on top of the old, as well as new piles next to the old ones. To anyone else, this would look like a case of someone who can’t throw anything away - a hoarder, even. To John, this is just Sherlock’s way of organising. Although John doesn’t know his system, he can almost guarantee that there, is in fact, an order to the madness - a control to the chaos. If John leaves anything out of place in his wake of searching, Sherlock _will_ notice.

Turning on his heels, John gives the room a thorough visual sweep, scanning over the abundance of mess and clutter around him, desperately looking for one of his few possessions he could give a toss about. He hopes beyond hope that Sherlock has left the laptop somewhere open and obvious, so he can just take it and leave, all while disturbing as little of the surrounding environment as possible. After another exhaustive scan, he sighs in defeat. He still can’t see it, and it doesn’t surprise him one bit. Sherlock always manages to make things harder than they need to be, even when he doesn’t know he’s doing it.

John looks up at the clock on the wall of Sherlock’s room: 1:32. Sherlock isn’t likely to be home for a few hours, but he would rather get this done and over with as soon as possible. The last thing he needs is for Sherlock to walk in on him going through his things, and he would much rather spend this all-too-infrequent afternoon of peace and quiet catching up on emails and blogging, rather than contemplating the ethics of ransacking his flatmate’s bedroom in order to get back something of his that Sherlock didn’t even have the decency to ask to use, or the consideration to return to him when he was done with it.

Sherlock will figure out that John went through his room, of that he’s sure. As soon as he comes bounding up those stairs, and through the door into the sitting room, probably on a tirade about how obvious the solution to the case was, how obtuse everyone at the Yard is, and how he doesn’t understand how Lestrade survived all those years without his help, he’ll see John using the laptop, and, well, it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to put two and two together. But John would rather him find out on his terms, rather than the surprise of Sherlock walking in on him, rummaging through his belongings. He’s not sure if he’s more worried that Sherlock would take offense to John’s invasion of his privacy, or simply shrug it off, and take it as an open invitation to go through John’s own bedroom, should the urge arise. Either way, he’ll deal with that issue later. For now, all he wants is to catch up on his emails, and blog, and maybe do a little aimless web surfing, in peace and quiet.

He observes the piles and groups of items, noticing the levels of dust that cover them like snow on a mountain top, and remembers what Sherlock had said about how dust is the one thing that can’t be put back. _Dust is eloquent_. At least John now has a way of narrowing down his search.

One of the stacks of old books by Sherlock’s bed catches John’s eye. Although the pile looks as weary and worn as everything around it, the dust, or rather, lack of dust, suggests that this pile has been handled recently. One of the books in the stack, the one right on the top is what really catches his attention. John walks over to the pile, stepping over all arrays of objects, including, he notices, a very old looking shoulder bag that’s been well-used but long neglected. On quick glance, John can see that the shoulder strap has been broken and repaired multiple times, and the bag is almost threadbare in places. _Why does Sherlock insist on keeping such things?_ he thinks to himself before he moves on. John doesn’t look too closely at what he perceives to be a long-forgotten petri dish of who-knows-what, as he continues on with his careful footing, making his way to the pile. He’s mindful not to disturb anything in his path. He still holds out hope of the slightest chance that he will find his laptop, and be able to leave behind minimal evidence of his presence.

Approaching the pile, John leans down to get a closer look at the book. Something about this one is different. The dust jack is missing and it’s instead wrapped protectively, and with what looks to be great care, in a piece of frayed and threadbare houndstooth patterned fabric, almost as if it’s a gift. The fabric doesn’t completely cover the book, though, and the almost obscenely uncovered, naked parts of the cover, draw John’s attention further. It’s worn almost to the point of falling apart, and although there’s plenty of books like this in Sherlock’s room, and all over the flat, for that matter, something about this book nags at his curiosity. Then it hits him. It’s the colour of the cloth - a colour that is distinctly familiar to him. It’s a shade of purple that, although faded in spots, John is sure he’s only ever seen on one book - _his_ book. He looks at it for a moment, not sure what to do, contemplating how much of a line he’ll be crossing if he starts to look through Sherlock’s stuff in greater detail. Rummaging through Sherlock’s room to find _his_ laptop that Sherlock ‘borrowed’ is one thing, but actually snooping through his friend’s stuff to satisfy his own curiosity seems like an entirely different line, and one John is hesitant to cross. He shakes his head, ashamed with himself for what he’s about to do, but yet unable to stop himself from doing it anyway. He feels like the book is drawing him in, screaming for attention and acknowledgment. He looks around the room. He knows he’s alone, but he still feels as if he’s being watched... That’s probably just the guilt, he thinks. He circles around the bed, and crouches down in front of the stack. He momentarily considers ‘accidentally’ tripping into the pile, and knocking the book off the stack. It certainly wouldn’t be an impossible scenario with all this clutter around, but he immediately chides himself at the ridiculousness of the idea. Knocking over the pile wouldn’t magically give him permission to snoop, and a lie to appease his own sense of guilt wouldn’t work too well if _he_ knows it’s a lie.

Sod it, he thinks as he reaches for the book, watching his hand make contact with it in what seems like slow motion. It’s almost as if his mind is giving him time to reconsider his choice. He could still get out of this, he thinks. He could stand up, walk out of the room, and wait until Sherlock gets back to question him about the laptop. He could forget he ever considered betraying Sherlock’s trust in such a way. He could, but he doesn’t. In his nervous and distracted state, he fumbles his hold, and the book tumbles from his hand. He scrambles to catch it, grabbing it by a piece of the fabric. The book spins as the fabric unwinds from around it, and in less than a second, the book is free. The momentum of the spinning causes the book to open, flinging pieces of paper of every kind and size, in every direction, like some sort of terrible confetti, a celebration of his misdeeds. John finally gets a proper grip on it, catching it just before it hits the ground. He freezes, wide-eyed as he watches the various papers make their graceful, fluttering descents to the floor. Realising that they likely all have (or rather, had) very specific places in the book, the probability of him being able to put every one of them back exactly where they came from is not in his favour, to say the least. This means the chances of him being able to put the book back without being discovered have been reduced to what is probably a negative number. He closes his eyes, and hangs his head in defeat, letting out a long breath of air he didn’t realised he’d been holding. His breath stirs up the dust on the lower part of the stack. As it swirls in the air around him, a voice in his head tells him that there’s no turning back now.

He gathers up the papers, taking a moment to mourn the loss of his dignity, as he forms them into a semblance of a stack, which he then unceremoniously stuffs back between the pages. He settles more comfortably on the floor, and leans back against the bed. One of the larger papers catches his eye, and he sees that although it’s weathered, worn and stained from much abuse, this was at one point a very nice piece of fine quality stationary. On the paper is written one simple sentence, unsigned, and almost illegible for all the wear.

_Thought you might like to see this. He’s been very busy since you’ve been gone._

John furrows his brow in contemplation. Although he can’t remember ever actually seeing it for himself, something tells him this is Mycroft’s handwriting. Probably something to do with the traditional-looking perfection of it, combined with the expensive stationary. He stares at the note, not entirely sure what to make of it, before setting it aside and focusing his attention on the book itself.

He picks up the houndstooth fabric, first, as it’s been a stand-in for the likely long-gone dust jacket. It’s been the book’s protective cover for who knows how long, so it only seems fair to examine it first. It’s worn threadbare in places and frayed around the edges, faded from the sun and repeated washings, stained with browns and blacks and greys, and soft to the touch. A natural fabric, a cotton blend, perhaps. John brings it up to his face, and smells it. Scent is said to be the biggest trigger of memories, and before John can finish his inhaling breath, he’s already being hit with a barrage of memories of Afghanistan - the sand, the heat, the dryness of the climate, other things he’d rather not remember. John carefully folds the fabric before setting it aside. He picks up the bare book, holding it in his hands as he stares at it in contemplation. He isn’t sure what this means. Sherlock has a copy of his book, that much is obvious, but the state of the book tells him there’s more to it than that. The cloth cover is faded, and the fabric worn almost right through in spots, but despite this, he can tell this is his book even before he reads what’s left of the worn gold debossed lettering on the spine and front cover. _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes & Dr John Watson*_. He remembers picking out this particular shade of purple, which to this day has only ever made him think of Sherlock’s very distinct, and most favourite shirt. Although the cloth on this copy is mostly faded, there’s still spots that are almost as vibrant a purple as the day it was bound.

Thus far he hasn’t really seen or learnt anything that he wouldn’t have done so, had the book been simply left on a table in plain sight. Not that John thinks this particular book would ever have been left around, but the thought somehow appeases a modicum of the guilt. If he puts the book back before opening it, he can still say, with a clean conscious, that he hadn’t really seen anything he shouldn’t have. Sherlock would still have every right to be offended by John’s actions, but John would have that much less to feel guilty about.

He opens the book to the first inside title page, and reads his own writing:

_Piss off!_

This is then followed by his very hastily written signature. “Huh,” he says very quietly to himself. It’s almost an involuntary noise of breathless disbelief, rather than a statement of realisation. He did think it a bit strange that Mycroft, of all people, wanted a personally signed copy of his book, especially when, at that point, John had believed Mycroft to have been one of the direct causes of Sherlock’s suicide. He realises he’s been holding his breath again, and takes a few deep, focused ones before continuing. The details are on the cusp of coming together in his mind, and he wants to be ready for whatever he’s about to learn. John quickly flips through the pages, not lingering for any time on any single one - only taking in enough information to notice the overall condition of the book. It’s rippled from being wet, which makes the pages hard to flip, and some of them stick together from whatever various substances stain them. John reaches the end of the book and closes it. He sits still, trying to process exactly what this is, and what it means. Part of him knows he should just put it back, continue looking for his laptop and forget he ever found it, but a stronger part of him needs to know more about this particular copy of his book, and what it means to Sherlock. Sherlock probably won’t be home for a few hours yet, anyway.  

John curses himself as he gets up to put the kettle on, intending to make another cup of tea to replace the one that has, in all likelihood, gone cold by now. He carries the book with him to the kitchen, setting it down carefully on the table, in one of the few spots not completely occupied by chemistry equipment or various experiments. He looks contemplatively at it, before continuing on with the task at hand. He distractedly fills the kettle with water, placing it on its electric base and clicking it on. He glances again at the book as if to reassure himself that it’s still there, before retrieving his mug from where he left it on the table next to his chair. He considers reheating it in the microwave, but then realises it’s probably bitterly over-steeped, and so instead pours it down the sink before giving the mug a quick rinse. Setting it on the counter next to the other long-cold and over-steeped mug he had made for Sherlock, John opens the cupboard. He searches through its contents, looking for the green tea he wants. He could have sworn they used to have quite a few varieties to chose from, but now it seems like it’s just box after box of Earl Grey. Sherlock has never been one to voluntarily (or involuntarily) do the shopping, but since arriving back, he’s stocked up on what John considers to be an unnecessary amount of Earl Grey tea. John never asked at the time, writing it off as one of Sherlock’s many eccentricities. After more searching which proves just as futile as his attempts at locating his laptop, John sighs, admitting defeat for what feels like the dozenth time today, and brings down a box of what’s apparently the only tea left in England. Clutching the box firmly, he absently watches the bubbles in the glass kettle build as the water begins to boil. Every so often he glances out the corner of his eye at the book. He feels like it’s watching him, like it has a soul of its own.

By the time the mug of tea is steeping on the table beside his chair, he’s completely forgotten about his laptop. John sits down in his chair, settling himself comfortably as he carefully cradles the book in his hands. He sighs again, shaking his head slightly, disappointed at himself for committing what some would consider a large betrayal of trust, but something inside him is stronger, more curious. The need to read the book overrides any compunctions he’d normally have about such an invasion of privacy. He has to read it. He glances up at the clock on the mantle: 1:54. Plenty of time.

He turns the book in his hands, moving it this way and that, taking in as much detail as he can. He feels the weight and balance of it, and runs his hands over the cloth of the cover. It’s still soft and smooth in spots, but also scuffed and rough from the grit that’s been deeply ingrained into to weave of the fabric. Parts of the spine, as well as the corners, are burnished to a shine. John suspects this to be the result of spending a good deal of time rubbing against the sides of a cloth bag - maybe even the same cloth bag that resides on the floor of Sherlock’s room right now. The gold trim is almost completely worn off, but he can still make out the debossed silhouette of a deerstalker hat in the centre of the front cover. He notices that the top right corners of both the back and front cover have been badly bent, and John wonders if the book fell a great distance. The cover is stained with what looks like water damage, and the pages are rippled from the same. The spine is bent and cracked quite drastically. It’s all the kind of wear you see on a book that’s been repeatedly opened, read and handled. Together, these damages - the rippled pages and added papers - have come to make the book more solid and sturdy, in spite of the damage.

John wants to make a much closer examination of the pages within the book. He wants to read every note, analyze every blemish, and to chase the curiosity, but it feels like yet another breach of his friend’s privacy. To examine the book in detail will be to see the innermost secrets of the thing - details that have potentially been kept from the eyes and mind of everyone except Sherlock. Until now.

The spine crackles like a stiff joint as John opens the book, revealing the first page. He let’s out a sigh. He’s opened the book, and he can already feel the guilt mounting. He begins to turn the pages. John glances at each of them in turn, but doesn’t let his gaze linger long on any one in particular. Not yet. Right now he just wants an idea of what to expect when he gives it a more thorough read later. Despite the earlier evacuation of loose papers, there still remains a good many secure in their original places in the book - newspaper articles and various clippings pressed between the pages, liken to a scrapbook, printed on a variety of paper, and in more languages than just english. Some of the articles appear to be about Sherlock after his ‘suicide’. Others are much older; articles about Sherlock and John and their cases. Some papers John can’t tell what they’re about - they’re too damaged, faded, or in a language he can’t read. Time goes by unnoticed as John probes and ponders his way through the pages, completely immersed in the book. He speculates on the origins of every stain and mark. He compares the most worn parts of the spine to the corresponding sections of the book, curious as to which pages Sherlock has visited the most. He finds himself not at all surprised that the very first entry - their very first case, titled A Study in Pink - is not only the most read section, but seems to be the most annotated. John sees that the binding is so worn in this section that the pages are starting to separate and fall out. Some already have, and are held in place by everything from sticky stains, to the squeeze of the surrounding pages, to what is probably just sheer luck. He thinks to himself that it doesn’t take great deductive abilities to be able to tell that this book was of some exceptional importance to its owner… To Sherlock. This book - _John’s book_ \- that has been read countless times, carried around at the bottom of Sherlock’s bag, seen as much of the elements and environment as he did. John closes it, pausing a moment to contemplate.

Seconds pass, or maybe minutes, as John half-listens to the ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece. He holds the book in his hands, brow furrowed as his thoughts ruminate. John has seen books in rough shape before, often the result of carelessness, or indifference to the book’s condition or longevity, accidents, or general wear over time. The damage is always familiar - coffee cup rings, grass stains, water damage, folded and dog-eared pages marking the reader’s spots when no proper bookmarks were available - but something about the damage to this book seems unfamiliar, extrinsic, derived from something wholly inaccessible to him.

John knows the time he has with this book is precious, and he needs to make the most of what little he has. This may be his only chance to study what lies in the pages, as he’s pretty sure that once Sherlock discovers he’s seen it, he’ll hide it away and John will probably never lay eyes on it again. He sits up, repositions himself in the chair, and readies himself for a more comprehensive look.

John opens the book again, and the spine cracks a bit less this time. He pays much closer attention now, taking in as much detail as he can, but he finds himself distracted by the knowledge that he might not get to see everything. Should he study each page in as much detail as he can and just accept that he won’t make it to the end? Or should he rush through it, cover to cover, seeing the individual details but not the bigger picture? If only he had a Mind Palace like Sherlock’s, to store the pages in so he can visit them later.

His eyes pass over the assortment of stains that litter the pages - various dirts and dusts, light coloured liquids that remind John of tea or coffee, fingerprint smudges, oily marks that have left translucent spots on the paper, water stain patterns - all things familiar to him, and perfectly  expected to be found in a book such as this. Other marks, however - damage that looks to have eaten away at the paper, salt residues, brown stains that remind John of iodine or blood, black smudges that smell like cordite - many things he is familiar with, but not in this context.

John thinks back to that day spent in the lab at St Barts, before the events leading up to Sherlock’s feigned suicide. Sherlock had been able to take a sample of oil from the kidnapper’s footprints, and from it extract enough information to create a map of the suspect’s travels based on residues found in the oil. John suspects this book might yield comparable results if subjected to similar tests and methods. What he holds in his hands now, John thinks, is not merely a book, but a detailed map of its owner’s travels - Sherlock’s travels. Although this map takes someone fluent in its language to read. If John had the mind of Sherlock Holmes, he’d likely be able to tell exactly where this book has been, and what its owner has been through, after only a brief study of it. It’s absolutely covered in evidence. But John isn’t Sherlock Holmes - he’s ‘just John’ -  and sometimes he’s thankful for that.

John feels a sudden, overwhelming need to take a moment. To let things settle in his mind. As if on auto-pilot, he abruptly closes the book, sending a small puff of dust out from the pages. He hastily puts the book on the side table, and leans forward, letting out a breath of air. His head in his hands and his elbows on his knees, he screws his palms into his eyes. He rests his chin back on his hands, and casts a look over at the empty chair across from him. He remembers looking at it over 3 years ago, sitting alone in the flat for hours at a time, just staring, willing Sherlock to not be dead.

John thinks briefly about what reaction this current situation would elicit from Sherlock, should he walk through the door and catch John in the act, so to speak. He thinks, then he stops himself. Why is he dwelling on things he can’t control, and getting himself worked up for nothing? He’s already invaded Sherlock’s privacy. It’s done now, and there’s no going back from it. It’s no longer a matter of if he’ll get caught for it, but when, so he might as well make the most of it. If he’s going to think about anything right now, it needs to be the book, and all the questions its mere existence in this context is sparking.

And so many questions there are. Why did Sherlock, a man who claims to abhor sentiment, collect and keep all these articles and pictures of himself and John? How significant must they have been (or maybe, still are) for him to hold onto them all this time? If the condition of the book is any indication, Sherlock had been through hell in the last few years, and to carry this book along with him couldn’t have been convenient. But the most pressing question in his mind is how, or rather, why does Sherlock even have a copy of his book? Obviously Mycroft had something to do with it, but why?

So many questions, and so little time with the one source for answers.

John seizes the book back off the table. He opens it, and dives right back into his scrupulous study of the pages. This time he takes notice of the copious amount of writing in the margins and blank spaces of the pages. Most of it is characteristic of Sherlock’s writing - a flat, cursive hand - and John is certain it is indeed his. Although the majority of the writing is typical of Sherlock’s, John can’t help but notice irregularities that stand out. The most noticeable of these is how shaky some of the writing appears to be. John hopes the shakiness was caused by Sherlock being in a moving vehicle of some kind, vehemently ignoring the other possibilities his not-so-naive mind is suggesting. The writing itself looks to be in every medium from biro, to ink, to pencil, as well as some John can’t quite place. Dark, bold inks of black, green, blue, even red, and some so faint, smudged, or run that they’re barely comprehensible. Most of the writing appears to be in English, but John recognises other languages, too. His eyes skim over random symbols, numbers, and groups of words that must have meant something at the time they were recorded, but appear to John as meaningless gibberish. There are, however, some scribblings he recognises, scattered amongst the aggregate.

He notices references to London: the coolness and abundance of rain, the frequent cloud cover, the much preferred option of being blinded by fog than by sand, and the generally cool climate, as compared to where he was at the time. He writes of the smell of the London air, the noise of the streets, the iconic skyline, even the river Thames. All the general feel and aesthetics of the home he longs for. As John turns the pages, he also sees writings describing Sherlock’s beloved Belstaff coat, as well as how he yearns for a cup of proper tea, drank from fine bone china cups or sturdy porcelain mugs. It all seems very sentimental, especially coming from someone who so outwardly detested such an attitude.

There are references to 221B: Sherlock’s violin, the skull on the mantelpiece, the smiley face spray painted bright yellow over the extravagant Navarre wallpaper, complete with well-placed bullet holes that were added on a day of particularly languid ennui. As John reads on, it comes to his mind that these were the exact things he was missing about 221B, during his time of mourning when it had been too hard to come back to their once shared flat. It’s funny, he thinks, that they were both missing the same things, at the same time, and yet their reasons for not being able to go home couldn’t have been more different.

John feels a familiarity in Sherlock’s writing, as he remembers longing for home during his own time overseas as a doctor and soldier with the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. Although during that time, John had been with friends, or at least fellow Englishmen. And the Army had tried its best to provide comforts of home, even if it never was as good as the real thing. At least John knew there was someone looking out for him, then. What did Sherlock have?

John continues on, scanning through what’s still legible of the rambling, ranting writings of home. In one particular group of scribbles, John notices something very familiar indeed. His own name, written multiple times over the span of a few pages. There’s hardly anything discernible around, though. Every time his name appears, what comes before and after it is scratched out, scribbled over, or erased, but for some reason, his name always remains in-tact. John tries in vain to read what was written, holding the book close to his face, squinting, and even angling the book in the light to try and make out what was there before it was made to be unreadable, but he’s unsuccessful, and so, with a shake of his head, he moves on.

There’s an abundance of annotations on John’s stories themselves - everything from corrections of minor details, to commentary on parts Sherlock considered to be too sensational or trivial to warrant the room they use. There are sentences that have been underlined, and entire paragraphs that have been circled, with or without accompanying commentary. Several passages indicate to John that there were cases which affected Sherlock on an emotional level, much more than he ever let on. He spots scribbled out notes that he can’t quite make out, and John even thinks he again sees his own name amongst the writings, but he can’t be sure. There’s writings of resentment over Mycroft’s constant ‘interfering’ in Sherlock’s affairs, and judging by its placement in relation to the printed text, it’s in reference to John’s meeting with Mycroft, shortly he and Sherlock moved into Baker Street. Another comment has Sherlock pining for the foods of home, and it’s written in the margins close to John’s telling of their first dinner together at Angelo’s. Most of the comments make John smile and even laugh: scathing remarks of how John wrote their cases to sound like nothing more than romantic adventures, when he should be sticking to the analytical facts; Sherlock’s indignance at the use of ‘adventure’ in the title of the book, as if he’s some character in a children’s story; and his insistence that the point of The Game is solving cases, not entertaining people, and that the text should treat it as such. A surge of joyous memories are suddenly awoken in John’s mind, and he feels as though he’s being hit by a landslide as they rush back. The first thing that comes to him, is the subtle look of petulance on Sherlock’s face after John had retorted ‘no one’s reading your website’, in reply to Sherlock’s comment that John’s blog was inferior to his own. John laughs to himself at the memory.

As he reads on, the comments about the cases themselves seem to diminish, until eventually, though the pages are still scattered with circled and underlined sections, there are no longer comments to do with the cases themselves. Why is this? John wonders. There are still notes throughout, though they seem unrelated to the stories. There’s even long passages that look to be diary entries, complete with dates. Smaller sections of free space give room to various sketches and drawings, but of what, John can’t alway tell. Some are quite obviously maps and building schematics. Others look like sketches of constellations. Maybe Sherlock finally learnt that the   universe isn’t so useless after all. John chuckles to himself.

Every once in a while, John finds scrawls that begin to tell of the much more disturbing and dangerous aspects of Sherlock’s time away. John has always enjoyed reading for pleasure, and so far, although he doesn’t necessarily call what he’s read up to this point ‘pleasurable’, it certainly hasn’t been all that bad. As he reads on, though, the tone of the writing begins to change dramatically. Funny, sarcastic commentary is excised in favour of rambling, sometimes incoherent scribbles. The pages are filled with anxious writings about recurring nightmares, and vague notes about locations. Reminders to himself to send word to Mycroft for more provisions the first chance he gets, and rambling sentences about missing home and wanting it all to be over. John reads notes that trail off mid sentence or thought, starting with “If I make it out of here…” and never being finished. All of it is in words that, although in Sherlock’s hand, are shaky and hastily written. It may be Sherlock’s writing, but it barely sounds like Sherlock’s mind. The more John reads, the more erratic and incoherent the notes seem to get, until eventually there’s just scribbles, before it becomes a stretch of pages marked with no words other than what was originally printed.

John feels all the thoughts and realities of what he’s just read hit him, and the feeling sinks straight down into his gut, causing it to turn and roll with unease. He thinks to himself that maybe he doesn’t want to know all the stories behind this book, after all.

**\-------------**

Eventually, John does get to the end of the book. His tea has gone cold (again), and the sunlight shadows have moved a great distance across the floor. He panics for a moment at his loss of time, and looks at the clock on the fireplace mantle. Nearly half-four. Sherlock will likely be home soon. He wants to delay, for as long as possible, the inevitability of Sherlock discovering that John found the book and looked through it. He quickly and quietly returns to Sherlock’s room, the whole time feeling paranoid, as if watched, and expecting to be discovered at any second. He puts the note from Mycroft back between the pages, taking a wild chance that it was marking the beginning of _A Study in Pink_. He takes the houndstooth print fabric, and carefully wraps it around the book, trying to recreate the way it was before, then puts it back, as best he can, on the stack where he found it. He tries to restore everything to its original state, but deep down he knows he can’t fool Sherlock. John feels yet another wave of guilt sweep over him, as he fully realises just how much of a breach of privacy he’s committed. Friends are supposed to respect each other, and respect definitely does not include going through your friend’s highly personal papers, especially if those papers are located in a private place such as their bedroom. The wave of guilt is quickly followed by a sudden rush of annoyance. John wouldn’t even _be_ in this position if Sherlock had just respected _his_ privacy in the first place! An eye for an eye. John sighs. He knows that Sherlock will notice the disturbance of his possessions right away, and he feels all the more ashamed for trying to hide what he did: like a child who’s done something bad, and is trying to hide the evidence from their parents. No matter what lie John could come up with in an attempt to explain himself, Sherlock would see through it in an instant. He never was any good at lying, anyway.

John finishes putting the book back to how he thinks it looked before. 

Just as he’s leaving the bedroom, he hears Sherlock’s hurried movements as he bounds up the stairs. John’s heart skips a beat at the realisation of how close he came to being caught in the act, and he pushes the thoughts about Sherlock and the book to the back of his mind. John hurries into the kitchen, distractedly putting the kettle on to make himself look busy, and preparing himself and Sherlock a cup of tea as a preemptive peace offering. He considers that despite looking at that book for as long as he did, he didn’t answer any of his questions. In fact, John now has many more questions than he suspects he’ll ever have the answers to, and he doesn’t expect he’ll ever get anything out of Sherlock. The only answers he’s going to be prying Sherlock for, is where his laptop is. He knows he’ll get the answer for that (eventually), but as for the book, he’ll just have to hope that one day Sherlock will tell him on his own terms.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock slams the door of 221B with his usual air of disregard, leaving the cold, damp draught of the outside world behind him. He runs his fingers through his hair, ruffling it, and shaking off the bits of snow that have found a temporary home in his curls. As he watches the snowflakes fall, he considers how much his life has changed in just a few short weeks. How appropriate it seems that London should welcome him back with one of the coldest winters in his lifetime, as if to make up for all the winters he’d missed while away. Amusement quirks his lips at the contrast it poses to the hot, dry climate he’d inhabited previously.

Sherlock is well-aware of the text John had sent him earlier that afternoon, inquiring into the whereabouts of his laptop. Upon reading it, he had made the conscious decision to ignore it in favour of the case at hand. It was much more important, and pressing, anyway. Although he would never admit it to anyone other than himself, he really had missed consulting on cases for the Yard, even if they often are insultingly easy.

Apart from stamping the snow off his shoes, Sherlock spends little time in the foyer before ascending the stairs with a literal spring in his step. It’s with great vociferation that he begins the rather cantankerous critique of his current case with Lestrade, and the reverberation of his baritone voice off the walls of the stairwell make his presence known well before he’s even reached the flat. It’s his usual discourse, which includes the general incompetency of Scotland Yard, and his amazement they ever managed to survive without him. He knows John is home to hear him, as his earlier text indicated his desire to stay at the flat while Sherlock was away.

Entering the sitting room, Sherlock removes his coat and scarf with a practiced flourish, hanging them on the hooks behind the door. He’s barely paused for breath as he walks into the kitchen, at which point he abruptly halts both his speech and his step. John isn’t acknowledging him. He’s not even looking at him. He’s instead staring blankly at a spot just past one of the mugs that currently sit on the kitchen work surface. This is not what Sherlock expected. Sherlock expected John to be angry, or irritable at the very least, over the disappearance of his laptop. He expected to enter the flat and find John waiting for him, giving him one of his stern, disapproving looks, his weight mostly on one leg, and his arms crossed. John would be waiting for Sherlock to take a breath - a quick pause in his tirade - so he could demand his laptop back. That would, of course, be followed by a long-winded and completely unnecessary lecture on respecting people’s property, that Sherlock would pretend to listen to, and then completely disregard at the next available opportunity. But John isn’t even looking at him. He’s just staring.

Sherlock is accustomed to John tuning him out when he’s on one of his rants. Sometimes John is preoccupied at the time Sherlock begins, but most of the time John chooses to ignore him, because he knows it’s not worth the argument that will almost always happen if John is allowed his own opinion on the matter at hand. Oftentimes Sherlock’s diatribes aren’t even directed at John - he’s just thinking out loud and John happens to be in the room. But there’s something different about it this time. Not only is John not paying attention to him, but his blank staring tells Sherlock that he’s consumed deep in thought about something else entirely. Something that has him so preoccupied, he isn’t even taking an opportunity to verbally pounce on Sherlock. He’s just standing, almost frozen over the mugs, his eyes staring but not focused, as if he’s daydreaming.

“John, the kettle’s just boiled,” Sherlock says officiously, in an attempt to snap John out of his reverie, but he gets no response. He furrows his brow and glares for a few more seconds before casually and purposefully striding over to the counter, and with a flick of his wrist, knocks a tin lid from where it sits on the work surface. Sherlock doesn’t take his gaze off John, as the lid makes a reverberating clang as it crashes to the kitchen floor.

John snaps out of his thoughts and back to the present moment, like a switch has been flicked in his mind. He seems unsure of the source of the noise that brought him back, and does his best to try and catch up with reality. “Oh, uh, sorry about that. Just got a bit, uh… distracted. For a minute,” John’s words come out choppy, as though he’s still partially lost in his thoughts. He makes a quick sidelong glance at Sherlock, and attempts a smile as if to suggest everything is perfectly normal, but aside from that, avoids looking directly at him. “Sorry, uh. Continue… with whatever you were, um, saying.”

Sherlock glares at him suspiciously. He can see that John is tense - nervous, even, and still not completely out of his own head.

“John, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong,” John’s answer comes too quickly, as does his sudden change from tense to lively, as he suddenly straightens up and clears his throat. His countenance remains self-conscious, however. “You want some tea?”

All these cues provide Sherlock with reasons to suspect the exact opposite. Something is definitely amiss with John Watson.

“Yes, John. A cup of tea would be lovely,” Sherlock replies in a tone that now sounds just as distracted. He moves his eyes from John, to a spot on the floor just past his feet. He shifts his eyes back and forth, as if sifting his mind for answers. He runs through his head a list of the possibilities that may have taken place during his absence that could cause John to act the way he is. Then it hits him. The laptop.

Sherlock looks over his shoulder at the sitting room behind him, only now noticing how things have been moved, shuffled, and tidied. John was looking for his laptop, then. Obvious, now that he thinks about it. He received the text from John asking its whereabouts at approximately 12:47 that afternoon, meaning John had likely exhausted his initial search by that point. John would have given Sherlock just a bit more than a fair amount of time to respond to the text, before he would have taken matters into his own hands, which means he might have been tempted to look--. Sherlock stops the thought there. He brings his eyes up to meet John’s, who are now staring straight at him, an ever-so-slightly abashed look on his face, with just a hint of pleading (whether to Sherlock or some higher power, he can’t quite tell. Likely both.), and a spoon frozen in his hand mid-stir of adding sugar to Sherlock’s tea. Sherlock collects himself as furtively as possible.

“Excuse me, John. I’ll just be a moment,” he announces as he walks past his flatmate. He strides down the hall, towards his room. Hearing John let out a breath of air, Sherlock looks back over his shoulder to see John leaning more heavily on the counter, as if to steady himself, his head and shoulders dropped as if deflated.

John closes his eyes and breathes out heavily. That’s it, he thinks to himself. He’s been caught. There’s no way Sherlock isn’t going to know he’s been snooping. John stands as quiet and motionless as a statue, trying to hear over the noise of his own rapid heartbeat, for the sounds of Sherlock opening the door and moving about in his room. His stomach rolls with anxiety and anticipation in a way he hasn’t experienced since he was a kid. Any minute now, Sherlock is going to come back down the hall and call him out on his invasion of privacy. It’s going to happen - John is sure of it - and if it doesn’t happen soon, he’ll turn himself in rather than endure this waiting. In the dead quiet of the flat, John can hear Sherlock move about, then stop abruptly. He’s probably looking at the disturbed pile right now, doing that little snarl he does when he doesn’t get his way, or realises he’s been deceived.

After a moment of silence that seems to John to last hours, but in reality is probably closer to a few minutes, Sherlock comes back into the kitchen. John doesn’t turn around to welcome him. Instead, he just waits for what he knows is coming.

Something pokes him in his back, and he slowly turns his head to see Sherlock prodding him with his own laptop, offering it to him.

“I got your text. I would have answered it right away, but Lestrade was being insufferably dense about the crime scene he had me look at. It was distracting and I forgot,” Sherlock punctuates his last sentence with a scowl, rolling his eyes at the memory of what he had had to suffer through. “Sorry I didn’t give it back to you sooner.” He looks at John with what he hopes is sincere apology on his face, although he can’t remember making enough of them to be well-practiced. He again pushes the laptop in John’s direction.

John turns around to face him. He looks from Sherlock, to the laptop, then back to the Sherlock, trying to read his face. John turns his head slightly to the side, continuing to stare with suspicion, apprehensive of what’s happening. Sherlock never apologises without an ulterior motive in mind, especially not for something he considers to be so petty. He continues to study Sherlock’s face skeptically, trying to decide the sincerity of his words.

“Thank... you…” John says hesitantly as he takes his laptop, not quite sure what to make of this. Maybe Sherlock is just waiting for the right moment to call him out, making him stew in his own guilt until some later time when the embarrassment and shame upon reveal will be maximised. John refuses to believe Sherlock hasn’t noticed yet, and that he’s finished with the situation. But he has gotten his laptop back, and Sherlock seems in a pleasant (if a little strange) mood, so maybe he’ll just call it a draw for now.

“Umm. The tea is ready,” John continues. “I mean, as long as I haven’t let it over-steep. Been a bit… preoccupied this afternoon.”

“Ah, yes. Good,” Sherlock replies awkwardly. “Shall I carry them in?”

“Sure, yeah,” John replies, as Sherlock takes both the mugs and proceeds into the sitting room. He sets one down on the table beside John’s chair, and his own mug on what little empty space available on the large study table.

John sits down in his chair, which is still slightly warm from earlier. He’s not sure what to make of Sherlock’s behaviour, but happy that he isn’t currently being berated. They sip their tea in silence for a few awkward moments, before John coaxes Sherlock into telling him all about his day with Lestrade.


End file.
